


Small Pleasures 2

by Lightcudder



Category: UFO | Gerry Anderson's UFO
Genre: M/M, Masturbation, Regret, Secret Desires, UST
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-28
Updated: 2013-07-28
Packaged: 2017-12-21 15:07:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/901691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lightcudder/pseuds/Lightcudder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Foster gives Straker a lift home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Small Pleasures 2

‘You okay?’

‘Yes, but thanks.’ There was a pause. ‘For the lift I mean.’

‘No worries.  There was a problem, otherwise –‘

‘Problem?’ The passenger turned his head, blond hair glinting in the lights of oncoming vehicles.

‘Nothing important. Studio stuff. Alec’s dealing with it.’ Paul waved a casual hand and concentrated on driving.

‘Right.’ Straker leaned back.

‘When are you coming back to work?’

‘Tomorrow. No reason why I need any more time off. Two days at Moonbase was enough.’ Straker shifted in his seat as if the leather was uncomfortable.

‘I can pick you up in the morning if you want?’ Foster didn’t look across. There was another pause. He was aware of Straker’s fingers clenching for a moment, a sharp intake of breath, a moment of tension.

‘Sure. I’d appreciate it.’

The car pulled onto a gravel drive, slowed down, came to a halt. ‘Look. Ed.’ Foster twisted in his seat.  ‘Would you like me to come in? Help get things sorted for you and so on. You look exhausted.’

Another pause. Another deep breath, with that slight hitch of discomfort, but Foster could hear the hesitation. ‘Better not. You have enough to do as it is. Anyway…’ Straker held out a hand. ‘Thanks. I’ll see you in the morning. About seven?’

Paul waited until the front door was open and the hall light on. Straker didn’t look back at him, just walked inside and closed the door. After a minute the bedroom light came on, a shadowy figure closed the curtains and then there was darkness.  He drove off, heading for  his own solitary bed, wishing  yet again for the courage to speak out. But he would never dare. Not to Straker. Never to that man.

His own apartment was a couple of miles further along the road from Straker’s.  Convenience. That was his excuse. A quick journey into work each morning, its  close proximity to where the boss lived nothing more than a coincidence. After all, other staff members lived in the area, didn’t they?

He parked in his designated place and  sat there for a minute, one hand on the leather  seat beside him. Still warm.  He should have insisted on staying with Straker; the man looked like death, his face drawn, eyes lined with tiredness, the visible bruises even more pronounced. He could at least have ...

No. It was better this way. He went inside, following the same routine as his superior:  front door open, hall light on, a quick check through the main rooms  then upstairs and into his bedroom. There was no-one watching him though, as he pulled the blind down and tugged off his jacket. Straker would be undressed now, maybe even showering. Hot water would ease those stiff muscles.

Paul took his time, fingers moving with meticulous care to unfasten each shirt button,  sliding  the soft cotton off his shoulders and then folding it before putting it out of sight in the basket. Shoes and socks next. Tidied away. Nothing left out to mar the pristine appearance of his bedroom.  The belt next;  buckle unfastened with deliberate movements, the soft leather sliding out from the loops to coil across the palm of his hands, rolling it neatly before opening a drawer and putting it aside. 

The zipper pulled down, his fingers so near the  taut skin, thoughts of other fingers playing so close, teasing  and enticing  but he refused to succumb to the temptation. Not yet. It was not time. He was not prepared, though his body was already eager, strengthening and thickening with the delicious thoughts filling his head, his senses. This was not something to be rushed. Not a quick schoolboy fumble in the darkness or a slow caress whilst  showering. This was special. This was his fantasy.

Trousers hung up now, he pulled off his sleek shorts, letting his erection free to spring proud from its nest of thick hair.  So tempting, to stroke himself, to feel his fingers  right there, but no. No touching himself.  Not yet.

The bed was tidy; sheets clean  on this morning in idealistic expectation of another’s presence here with him tonight. It would never happen, deep within his heart he knew it, but there was always the off chance. And perhaps one day. Who could say?

The heavy cotton fabric yielded to his touch, the smell of sunshine lingering in the room as he pulled the top sheet back and lay down. ‘He’ would be doing the same. Straker.  Slender legs stretching out, his strong hands running through corn-silk hair to tousle it dry, sliding over smooth skin, then relaxing in rest, one hand on the pillow with those fingers curled in sleep. Eyes closing, long lashes brushing his cheeks, lips slightly parted as if expecting a kiss.

Safe now, under the sheet, Foster’s own hands began their own exploration:  fingers dipping into the hollow of his own throat where Straker’s lips would kiss,  stroking down his breastbone in imitation of the touch of  longed-for hands, running the tips of his own broad fingers over thick and soft bodyhair that seemed coarse and unattractive in comparison to those sparse golden strands that he ached  to feel beneath his fingers.

He closed his eyes. The  room was quiet and peaceful and dark, and yet he wanted noise, wanted to hear breathing, the  rustle of clothing as Straker undressed, the pad of naked feet approaching the bed,  blue eyes glinting in the faint light  as his lover leaned over him to kiss. He ached for the slur of sheets being pulled back to leave his body exposed,   that slight dip in the bed as Straker sat, his eyes roaming over Paul’s body, one hand reaching out to slide across  his chest, lips brushing the skin of his throat. He could feel the contact, his body shivering under the caress.  But it was his own hand touching, his own fingers tracing over skin and fleetingly brushing one nipple,  his breath catching in his throat at the thrill. Such a spark of desire. Painful in its intensity.

He held back. Held himself still, even as he ached to reach down for release. One hand, stroking across his chest, down shoulder and arm and back to take the nipple once more. Hard. No gentle caress this time. A cruel grip; pulling, nails digging deep. He pinched harder, a faint imitation of another’s teeth nipping and biting at that tender skin,  and  closed his eyes, seeing in his mind a blond head close against his chest. He wanted to wrap the fingers of his free hand  in cornsilk hair as the pain increased, a sharp, agonising delight, bringing his need even closer.  One hand reached behind to grip the bedpost in an effort to control the desire and he tensed, holding back the rush with a moan of desperation. Too soon; he wanted more than a sudden thrill, a quick release. He deserved more.  With a gasp he let go,  his  nipple  tingling with reprieve and regret  as he  brought his hand to his mouth, sucking at the  fingers, his tongue swirling around them in a slow kiss, before  he returned them  to that hard nub, stroking round it to soothe once more. Not the same as those wide lips bringing him closer to rapture, or a certain tongue licking away that exquisite soreness, but it would suffice. Until.

Until.

He shifted position, moving further into the middle of the wide bed, his fist still tight around the bar above his head. Temptation. His member engorged, long and wide, achingly responsive.  It would take only the slightest touch to spill into completion. He held still, tightening muscles, holding his breath as he suppressed that craving once again.  One hand stroked down to the curls of gentle hair on the pad of his belly. No rippled muscle there, instead he encountered a layer of softness, a resting place for his lover’s  head.  Straker was harder, less bulk to his slender frame, but the line of golden hair leading from navel to the strength at his groin was enough treasure.  It would be warm and there would be the musky promise  of sex, and the scent of Straker himself. Paul  bit his lip, shifting position as he hardened further, uncomfortably erect  now, close to disobeying  him with untimely release.

One hand intensified its grip on the bedpost while the other now  roamed his body: throat, fingers rasping on the shadow of his evening beard, down his breast bone, slick on the  sweat gathered on his sternum despite the coolness of the room, then fingers spread out over his abdomen and across to the point of his hip. Short coarse hair at the edge of his fingers, a roar of heat in his hips  as he scraped  short nails up that deep crease between sac and  inner thigh. Shivers wracked his lower body as he repeated the action, harder and then he reached out to take hold of his thick shaft, imagining another’s hand at his groin.

He stifled the name that threatened to burst from his lips, and then shuddered with the influx of sensations: the hand wrapping around his member, the warmth of his manhood in those strong, still fingers as they just held him, the ache deep inside as the craving intensified. He writhed on the sheets, biting his lips again to suppress the moan that was building inside. Those fingers. That hand. Not his hand, though he knew the truth, he had imagined this so many times before but tonight it was easy to forget that it was his own hand tightening around his shaft, beginning a slow rhythmical slide up and down from root to tip.

‘Harder,’ he whispered, twisting his hips even as his hand released its hold behind him and joined in the assault on his body, tweaking one nipple and then the other, dipping fingers into his mouth, then down to his sac to cup the tightness there and then back to taunt first one bud and then the other. Nails scratched his body, livid welts like whip lashes marking his skin as the other hand caressed his erection with even strokes. Straker would do that to him, would mark Paul as his own, would drag his nails down Paul’s spine until Paul screamed for release, would dig them deep into his buttocks, even as his teeth were biting into the softness of Paul’s shoulder and his own erection pressing against Paul’s stomach.  Skin against skin, the heat of Straker’s body burning against his, the taste of Straker’s mouth and earlobe and nipples, the saltiness of ejaculate on his lips, on his tongue.  

His hand picked up speed, driving his senses onwards, his heart beginning to pound with expectation. A light flick of his thumb over the sensitive head, and he  tightened, thickened as the tingling increased,  deep inside his groin in expectation.

Sweat pooled below his throat, on his breastbone, his lips parted now as he gasped for air, hand still moving in those determined, incessant strokes, the silk-soft skin sliding back and forth in time with his inhalations, his thumb caressing  his  swollen tip with every upward stroke. Slow, slow anticipation. Letting the tide build up, not hastening it until he was ready, until his unseen lover was ready. 

Closer. Closer.  He could feel it, could almost see it. An awareness of pre-cum spilling out under the pad of his thumb as he continued to taunt the sensitive tip with an unspoken promise. He traced across  with one finger of his other hand and brought the fingertip  to his mouth. Straker would taste like this. Masculine strength and the promise of sex. Musk. That distinctive voice murmuring in his ear. Soft blond hair tickling  his chest; Straker’s fingers, tweaking the  hairs there, his breath warm. He wanted nothing more than to reach back, grip the bars behind and let Straker take him, heart and soul and body. Take him deep … but he was alone in the bed and his only release would be from his own hands.  

Faster strokes now, not gentle or thoughtful or caressing. Almost violent in his intensity, long, hard movements, stepping up the rhythm in time with his pounding heart. So close. It was there. Just gathering itself, pooling together in his groin with heat and tingling anticipation and that greyness at the edge of his mind.

Just a few more strokes, his hand jerking now, his breath in sharp gasps, legs twisting numbly against crumpled sheets, sudden sweat breaking out all over his body, coating him in fine warmth, his skin trembling under the oncoming rush.

Rigid now, his back arched, lips closed tight as the sensation built, closer and closer, just under the surface, wanting only one last twitch of his thumb, one last upward thrust of his hips. His erection so hard, so painful that he wanted to scream  as the thrill shook his body to  leave him gasping for breath and  drenched in sweat. One treacherous word escaped his control as he shuddered to the end,  his hand clasped around the shaft as his ejaculate spurted out to lie, warm and satisfying on his skin.

Exhausted, he dropped his head onto the pillow,  his whole body painfully sensitive in the aftermath, his nipples sore and yet wanting more,  his  shaft losing its thickness and coming to rest.

The sheets were crumpled mercilessly, sticky and stained with residue, thick  with the heavy scent of his release but he was not concerned. He tugged one pillow round to hold it against his chest,  wrapping his arm over as if holding onto his lover.

It would suffice.  He would sleep now, and dream.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I was challenged to do this topic by another writer and as Small Pleasures gave an insight into Foster's secret desires, I thought I would explore what happened later on, once Straker returned from Moonbase.


End file.
